I hate pap smears. Like, really hate them.
I know what you’re probably thinking: Umm…yeah. Does anyone really *like* having a doctor dig around in her lady garden while her butt teeters dangerously close to the edge of an exam table?
No, they probably don’t. But my hatred runs a little deeper than the average woman’s. You see, I had my first pap done at the ripe old age of 16, due to my doctor’s concern that I hadn’t yet started my period.
To call my experience uncomfortable would be like calling a bikini wax a little unpleasant. The doctor couldn’t even finish the exam. I remember being in so much pain that my mom, who was with me, had to leave the room when we were done. I found out later that she’d excused herself to the restroom.
To throw up.
From seeing me in such agony.
Did I mention that I was a virgin at the time?
That’s right, folks. The Spec popped my cherry. And it hurt like hell. Actually, it hurt like a piece of metal ripping through my hymen, like a toddler tearing through Christmas paper.
To this day, I can’t even look at the thing without feeling a little twinge of pain in my vagina.
So, yeah: I hate paps. And I really hate the speculum. Since our first encounter, over a decade ago, The Spec and I have had a rather rocky relationship. As in, I would almost rather have rocks shoved up my vagina than that metal monstrosity. The pain is probably mostly in my head, but—as Dumbledore would say—“Why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
(I sometimes think about Harry Potter during gyno exams to keep my mind off of what’s going on in my Hufflepuff.)
When I see the doctor pull out the speculum, I clench. It’s instinct. And it doesn’t really help when the nurse says, “Just try to relax your muscles.”
Ha. Did you ever notice that “speculum” is an anagram for “muscle up”? As in, Hi, my name is Speculum, and my primary goal in life is to make every muscle in your body tense up?
(I also anagram at the gyno, to keep from reliving the horror of my 16-year-old self being deflowered by something that looks like it belongs in a garden toolshed.)
I don’t know who came up with the name “speculum,” but I don’t find it a very fitting one (pun intended). It sounds too much like “spectacular.” Maybe they should have named it The Lady Spreader. Or The Wiggle-Your-Toes-All-You-Want, This-Is-Still-Gonna-Be-Uncomfortable-As-Hell Tool.
Or maybe just, Motherfucker (which kind of makes sense, if you really think about it).
I mean, I know that a speculum by any other name would still hurt like a bitch.
But it might be just a wee bit more satisfying to part ways with it at the end of my annual pap with a clench of my legs, a flip of my finger, and a dramatic, “Until we meet again, Motherfucker!”
Samantha Wassel is a Stay-At-Home Mama to the cutest twin toddlers in the history of all Toddlerdom. When she’s not running her borderline-offensive mouth, she’s running masochistically long distances, often with the aforementioned toddlers in tow. She enjoys reading, writing, baking, marathoning, complaining, photographing, playgrounding, and Ghirardelli Midnight Reverie chocolate bars. Her writing has been featured on Scary Mommy, The Mid, In the Powder Room, BluntMoms, and Mamalode. Follow her on Facebook and check out her personal blog, Between the Monkey Bars.